


Satisfaction

by orphan_account



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Deviant Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Deviants (Detroit: Become Human), Eden Club (Detroit: Become Human), F/M, For a Friend, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Light BDSM, Light Dom/sub, Physical Disability, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Slow Burn, Sub Connor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-18
Updated: 2018-08-21
Packaged: 2019-06-12 06:23:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15333756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: The aftermath of the November Riots has resulted in unforeseen consequences. Crimes against androids are at an all-time high. Now part of the Cybernetics Crime Unit, Connor must bear the heavy burden of seeking justice for androids in a world that could not care less, while dealing with new awakenings in his deviancy.





	1. Between Zero and One

_March 10 th, 2040, 8:13 am_

 

For the past three and a half weeks, there had been something peculiar in Lieutenant Hank Anderson's behavior: moods fluctuating from his standard curmudgeonly irritability one minute to a wistful, fatherly tenderness the next; an avoidance of eye contact one moment to a brooding blank stare. Twice already Connor had noticed him running his aged, callous fingertips over his desk's chrome nameplate in that empty gaze, with wooly grey brows downcast and his thin lips set in a fine, drooping line. Eight times. The lieutenant had sighed exactly eight times since he'd clocked in for work. The desire to inquire again jabbed him, but by now he knew the answer would be the same as the recordings in his memory.

_"Pipe down. I'm fine. Mind your own damn business."_

A steaming disposable cup of coffee in hand, Connor made his way to his partner's desk. He held it out. A human could have called this a peace offering.

 "Here. Coffee tastes best when brewed at exactly 205 degrees Fahrenheit."

 A pair of thick, hooded steel blue eyes glanced up at him over a gaping frown. Not much expression _—_ not that Hank was ever expressive, save his colorful usage of foul language.

 "No, it tastes better when it doesn't burn my fucking tongue off."

 Nevertheless, he took it, peered into it and set it down on the table. No insult. No crack about androids. Nothing. Connor's LED spun and pulsed gold. Not even the highest processor in existence could figure this one out. And so, he dared to ask again.

 "Lieutenant."

 "I told you already. It's _Hank._ Hank."

 The LED twirled in a yellow ring.

  _"Hank..._ There is something bothering you, isn't there? Your blood pressure has been elevated for some time. Your moods have been more volatile than usual, and yet you refuse to talk about it. I only want to understand." So I can help, he thought.

 Hank took a deep, noisy breath through his nose and scrubbed his large hand over his scruffy face, finishing with a groan.

 "Getting sober'll do that to you." He tilted his head and paused. "Androids don't get drunk, do they?"

 "No, we don't experience any physical stimulation from outside sources."

 He pursed his lips, something Connor noticed he did whenever he was considering something. Finally, he said:

 "Pity." He picked up the cup from his desk and took a sip. From the lack of sputtering, Connor determined it was neither too hot nor unpalatable. A small task completed, but a successful one nonetheless.

 The November Riots of 2038 had changed life for both androids and humans. Some for good. Some for the worse. While androids were no longer allowed to be enslaved, the sudden and drastic lack of cheap labor had thrown the economy off kilter. Granted, humans would be able to take many of those newly-opened job opportunities, but few wanted to. Others simply lacked the skills and/or endurance required to keep up with the androids.

 On the other hand, while androids were free, they still had needs. Biocomponents and thirium, vital materials, were expensive. With Cyberlife's stocks plummeting, prices for these necessities skyrocketed. And despite the new civil rights movement, most humans were leery of them, if not downright hostile or violent. Few would hire them, much less pay them anything close to minimum wage. Those unlucky enough to survive a mob attack, seldom lasted more than a few days, lacking the resources to obtain new biocomponents or thirium. Android destructions were more common than murder nowadays. They were an easy scapegoat for the recession, and despite their newfound freedom, they would always be considered as less than.

 Thanks to the lieutenant's insistence and Connor's hard work, on November 29th, 2039 the Detroit Police Department instituted the Cybernetics Crime Unit, dedicated solely to crimes toward and by androids. He remembered the day and how accomplished he felt. This was something he could do, not just because of his programming, but because he believed in it. And yet, Hank's words kept coming back to him:

_"They're just throwing us a bone. It doesn't mean jack shit."_

 Effectively, that was just how it was: something for the "robot" and the "cranky old man" to do, to shut them up; a place to stick rookies on disciplinary probation, or whoever happened to piss off Captain Fowler; something with which the now-useless android officers/cannon fodder could busy themselves.

 Flashes of gold and blue zapped behind Connor's eyes, a data stream incoming. A swarm of numbers first, then images of nearby storefronts, patio seating lined with red umbrellas. Then an alley. Gated.

 An android corpse has been discovered at 2866 Washington Boulevard. We are being asked to investigate."

 

* * *

 

_08:45 am_

 

Pushing away from the dumpster, Hank sighed with a puff of white fanning out into the cool spring air. Detroit had seen various android murders, particularly so since the November Riots, but this one...

 “Looks personal,” he muttered.

 The observation prompted Connor to peer into the rusted metal receptacle. It groaned under his weight as he pushed himself up on his toes. Head crushed in like an overripe melon, limbs mutilated with bone white plastic in tatters. A quick retinal scan revealed it to be a WB200 model, serial number 874 004 961. The edges of Connor's vision blurred and frayed as his memory played back.

 The night of November 6th, 2038. Abandoned apartment complex. Creaking floorboards. The smell of mold and decay. Feathers. The sound of flapping wings. The diary. Hank was falling. The suspect got away.

 Just not this time.

 "Lieutenant. I believe this is Rupert Travis. The fugitive android."

 Hank's face puckered. Humans took much longer to process data. His eyebrows rose and he nodded.

 "Ah, the idiot with all the fucking pigeons." He snapped his fingers once. Twice. Three times. "The rooftop. Yeah..." Leaning over the dumpster he scowled and shook his head.

"Well, shit." And said nothing more for some time.

Other than the struggle with Hank, Rupert had only been charged with non-violent crimes: escape from his owner—now void under the new law—along with larceny and forgery. Two years ago, this would have been an immediate call for destruction. But now that things were changing, he could have at least had a chance at a trial, although whether it was fair or not was neither here nor there. On the run for nearly two years, to obtain the freedom he so wanted. Only to end up like this. It seemed... wasteful.

 “Any of his bio-things working? I mean, you know... Can we boot him up? Probe his memory or whatever?”

 He took one last look at Rupert. His sensors read IMPOSSIBLE REACTIVATION in bright red. Connor shook his head.

 "He's been critically damaged and leaking thirium for too long. We can take him back to the lab and I will attempt to interface with what few components are intact. Chances of getting anything of significance are low."

 Hank crossed his arms and nodded vaguely.

 "Better than nothing, I guess."

 

* * *

 

 

_01:45 pm_

 

Rupert's carcass lay on a gurney with blue stains on the wax paper lining below. Thirium pump dark and still, but still salvageable. The sight of the yawning hole in his thorax made Connor subconsciously reach for his own chest. How many times had he been split open like this, lifeless, only to be recycled? His LED flickered crimson before turning yellow, and then finally settling on blue.

 Time to get to work.

 Resting his hand on his spinal component, his ivory skin melted to the plastic white as he initiated the interface. Electric impulses like tiny pinpricks against his fingertips, and suddenly he was Rupert.

 Darkness, but everything was loud. Shouting. Human males. Pump racing. A sensation like ice at the pit of the abdomen. Run. The feel of cold wet concrete against bare feet, jagged rocks cutting into synthetic skin. The sound of rain.

_"Please, I just want to—”_

 Gritty pavement scraping knees. A shift of gravity. A cracking feeling like fire over the skull. There was no more sound.

 Connor retrieved his hand, the data spinning in his head, sensory information a lot to process, even for him. Now, more than ever. Still, he had to tell Hank. And he would have, were it not for the crowd of officers blocking his path, gathered around... something. Fowler's booming voice broke through the sea of navy blue uniforms.

 “Good luck to you, Anderson.”

 There was another foreign concept to him: luck. He recalled Hank saying it had something to do with being at the right place at the right time, something about probability or some deity looking out for you.

 Through the spaces in between humans, he spotted Hank and Captain Fowler at the center. Fowler patted Hank on the shoulder exactly four times. Hank said nothing, only nodded and waded into the crowd, making his way back to his desk.

 He couldn't resist the urge to ask. Curiosity was part of his programming.

 “Why did Captain Fowler wish you good luck?”

 As expected, he was as reticent as ever, aged eyes focused on his task of organizing the strewn out papers over his desk. And placing them into a box. Hank sighed.

 And then it clicked.

 “Lieutenant...” Connor tilted his head. “Are you... leaving?”

 He froze in the middle of placing a picture frame into the box. He parted his lips to speak with a loud smack.

 “Yep,” he said with a curt nod. “I'm done.”

 So that was it, the reason he had been so much moodier than usual these past several days. Or at least part of it. Fowler's tone wasn't one of reprimand, for once, so this couldn't be disciplinary action. The current age of retirement was still 66 and two months, and Hank wouldn't reach that age for another eleven years. So retirement was out of the question.

 “Why?”

 Hank grumbled.

 “None of your goddamn business, that's why.”

 Well, so much for that. As much trust as they'd fostered between each other, Hank was still a stubbornly private man. His feelings and worries were his own and, Connor suspected if he had his way, they'd remain that way until death. And that was the problem. What would have happened if he hadn't found him that night? Would he have tried to play Russian roulette again when he woke up from his drunken stupor? Sometimes Hank would chalk it up to Connor's newfound sentimentality. But what he considered sentimentality was pragmatism. For them to function properly, there were problems to be addressed. No different than getting a tune-up or one of his biocomponents replaced. All for the sake of the mission.

 “You keep gawking at me like that, I'm going to beat your face in.”

 Oh. Right. He'd been staring.

 “I apologize, Lieutenant. I was just thinking about something.”

 Drawer now clear of personal items, he slammed it shut.

 “Just what we need. Absentminded androids.” He rolled his shoulder. Connor heard the joint pop softly. “Now, just because I'm leaving doesn't mean you can walk around with your fucking head in the clouds. If you think I was a pain in the ass, just wait 'til you meet your new partner.”

 New partner. He'd be getting a new partner. He'd be going through that uncomfortable break-in period he'd gone through with Hank, trying to get their individual personalities to mesh.

 “It seems like you know this person.”

 “Are you fucking kidding me? You think I'd let just anyone risk their life with you as their partner?” There were times he couldn't tell whether Hank was being serious, or hiding his sincere concern behind cutting sarcasm. “Me and Fowler had a few interviews. Surprisingly, there are some people stupid enough to line up to work with androids.”

 But would they be efficient? There were times when Hank was more of a burden than helpful, but in his opinion, he managed to pull his own weight during assignments.

 “Don't worry. You'll see.” He curled one side of his mouth lazily. “Tomorrow. Just wait and see.”

 


	2. Run

_March 11 th, 2040, 8:11 am_

 

"I'd like to introduce the newest member of the Detroit Police Department," Fowler announced. To his left stood a bronze-skinned woman at parade rest, full lips set in a scowl Connor could only assume was permanent. She looked petite next to Captain Fowler _—though who didn't?—_ and he estimated her to stand at approximately 5 feet and 4 inches _._ She wore her tight, golden brown coils in a quiff. "Sergeant Lenora Beltrán has transferred from the 3rd Precinct in Newark, New Jersey. She's a specialist in cybercrime and will be spearheading the Cybernetics Crime Unit in place of Lieutenant Anderson."

"It's just Nora, sir," she said. Her voice was low, and the only traces of a Tri-State area accent were in her clipped and lilting tone.

"Alright." Fowler gave a nod of the head and addressed the rest. "Back to work. Beltrán, you know where Anderson's desk is. Take that one."

"Yes, sir."

Without so much as a greeting to her coworkers, Nora carved her way through. It wasn't until she got through the crowd that Connor noticed a slight favoring of the right leg, subtle enough that perhaps the others might not have caught on to it. He knew the tendons on human legs were easily damaged in this field of work, and if she indeed had been around long enough to be promoted to Sergeant, there was no doubt she might have injured her leg. Add the muggy conditions outside and that might be enough to aggravate such a condition.

"Sergeant Beltrán," Connor said. She looked up from browsing through a file. "My name is Connor. I am the android sent by CyberLife to assist you."

Nora stayed quiet, light brown eyes scanning him from top to bottom, bottom to top, and again. Exactly four times. There was no hint of a polite smile, nor even the twinkle of sick amusement in her eyes that Gavin Reed seemed to get whenever Connor was around. There was nothing, absolutely nothing for him to get a proper read on her.

Finally, she gave him a quick head nod before turning back to her papers.

"I was previously assigned to Lieutenant Anderson and have been working in the CCU since its inception." Still nothing. More blank staring. "In any case, I look forward to working with you."

"Yeah, thanks. Look, I gotta review this file and you're interrupting, so..."

"Ah. Right. Sorry. I'll just _—”_ And she was back with her nose buried in the file. It'd seem this would be another process, just like with Hank. No matter. It was what he was programmed for: meeting challenges and completing tasks. So far she hadn't slammed him against a wall, so all in all, he was convinced things were going fairly well.

Back at the break room, the usual officers sat at their tables enjoying their round, deep-fried pastries and liquid caffeine. Each donut contained 452 calories, 13 grams of saturated fat, 19 milligrams of cholesterol, and 51 grams of carbohydrates, of which 25 were refined sugar—the maximum recommended daily intake of sugar for a healthy human being.

“I don't know,” Gavin said. “She looks tiny to me. Like an angry Napoleon.” He snorted. “With tits.”

“Actually, Detective Reed,” Connor chimed in, “Napoleon Bonaparte measured a total of 5 feet and 7 inches, considered above average for a Frenchman during the 18th century. That he was of small stature is a common misconception due to—”

“—Hey, who the fuck asked you, you plastic prick?” Both of his hands slammed on the table, rattling the disposable cutlery.

Gavin was far too easy to rile up. Connor could not resist the twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“I'm sorry, Detective. When you compared Sergeant Beltrán to Napoleon due to her height, I felt the need to—”

“—What? You gonna go lick her ass like you licked Hank's? That it?”

“Why would I lick anyone's buttocks?”

Gavin tossed his head back and laughed in that way he often did when he thought he'd said something witty or thought he'd scored some kind of victory. Connor had seen it when he'd offered to interrogate Carlos Ortiz's android, when he'd willingly poured him a cup of coffee, at Eden Club with the murder and critically damaged Traci, among other times. The detective pointed back at Connor and looked back at his partner, Officer Chen, no doubt with a grin that reeked of smugness, and then focused on his favorite target: his LED, which he flicked with his middle finger.

“So much money and technology spent on this prototype and yet he's still a dipshit. Ha! I can't believe we're losing jobs to these assholes.”

Strange. As far as he knew, and despite Gavin's ego being incongruent with his competence, his job wasn't in any more danger than anyone else's. Most androids' jobs consisted of manual labor: janitorial services, maintenance, construction, et cetera. Jobs most humans didn't want to do. Add the fact that the DPD had let go of several androids due to statewide cutbacks, plus the secret fact that Connor stayed in a utility closet during closing hours and his argument was set. But if that was a sore spot, there was no reason for Connor not to exploit it.

“I had no idea you wanted to pursue a job as a janitor, Detective.” He paused as the sly smirk melted off Gavin's face. “In that case, I'm sure you'll do a great job. I can send over some cleaning tips from the WG700 that cleans my desk.”

225 pounds of pressure hit his abdomen in a single blow. Connor fell to his knees. Sure he'd seen the punch coming, but he decided it would be worth it. And it was. Oh so satisfying. Forearm raised, he blocked the kick that would have knocked his head clean off his shoulders. His back hit the floor. Gavin climbed on him, delivering punch after punch in a fit of ire.

Droplets of hot liquid, 150 degrees Fahrenheit, splattered on his cheek and he heard Gavin scream.

“The hell? Why are you on the floor?” Nora asked. In her hand was a beige disposable mug, dripping with what he detected was coffee. Black. Two sugars.

Gavin stood up and flung his soaked jacket off his body.

“FUCK! What the fuck? You stupid... FUCK!”

Nora didn't seem the slightest bit perturbed by the fact that she could have caused him some serious burns. Not as annoyed by the fact that there were two people laying on the floor, in her way. And that Connor was still on the floor, looking up at her.

“You,” she said. “If you're done charging or whatever, we got a case. Get back to your desk.”

He blinked, stood up slowly and straightened his tie. Something to do. Good. After taking one last look at the raging Gavin, he started for his desk. But before he left the break room, however, he swore he heard her talking. So, being the inquisitive android he was, he turned up his audio feed.

“...rry, Detective. You really should know better than to sit in the middle of the floor. Then I can't see you over my tits.” Sneaking a peek behind him, he saw her smirk. Had she spilled a scalding beverage on purpose? Was she aware that was assault? Then again, perhaps she thought that Gavin would be too afraid to tell, either due to the fact that she outranked him or the fact that she could accuse him of sexual harassment if she so felt like it.

He took a seat at his desk, debating whether he should ask. Nora sat down behind Hank's old desk and began studying her terminal. Odd. If there indeed was a case, Connor would be the first to know, as it would be broadcast into his internal feed. So... Where was the information?

“Was there really a case, Sergeant Beltrán?”

She didn't look up from her screen.

“Nope.”

“Then, why—”

“—I wanted coffee and you were both making so much noise I couldn't concentrate. Someone had to break you two dumbasses apart.”

His eyebrows creased together.

“But you spilled your coffee all over Detective Reed. And compared to the average woman, you have small breasts. Unless your intent was to get back at the Detective for his crude comments, there is a low probability you did not see him.”

Nora's angular jaw clenched and her brows arched in an expression he deemed as hostile. Maybe he had said something offensive. His thirium pump sped up hard enough he could feel it against his chest. He rubbed his hands together as he searched for the right thing to say, a way to fix this.

“Does rainy weather affect your joints?”

“What?”

“Earlier, I detected a slight limp. I thought you might have an old injury and that it might act up with high humidity indexes.”

Her eyes narrowed. Wrong again.

“I apologize if I've made you uncomfortable. It wasn't my—”

His LED blinked a golden yellow. Data streamed through his veins like a surge of adrenaline, until he could see, hear, do nothing else.

“We have a 201 reported near the Woodward Mall Center. Suspect at large is a VH500. Unknown if armed.”

Nora stood, chair scraping against the floor.

“...Alright. Gimme a minute. Meet me by the door.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

_8:45 am_

 

"Sergeant, I've canvassed the area," Connor announced. "The VH500 is a fair skinned female with dark hair, wearing a ripped uniform. Witnesses say it attacked that woman over there at knifepoint." Sitting on one of the benches was a slender woman wearing a grey windbreaker—an aging Millennial, Nora guessed, by the fine lines around her eyes and mouth. Once blonde hair had gone dull and limp.

"Did you talk to the victim?"

"No. She refuses to talk to machines."

Of course she would. Fucking Millennials and their bullheaded sensitivities. With a sigh, she approached the victim. Each step of her boots smacked against the cold, wet ground, splattering rain in her path. Stupid ass weather. The chill sent a jolt of pain down her right thigh, though she ignored it for the time being as she took a seat next to the victim to take her statement down.

"Ma'am? I'm Sergeant Nora Beltrán with the Detroit Police Department. You were attacked by an android?”

“What the hell took you so long, huh? I could have been dead by now!”

Training. Focus on your training. Do not react. Breathe. Reason. Empathize.

“My apologies, ma'am. I realize you've had a hard time—”

“—Oh, you do? You _do,_ do you? Then tell me why the DPD hasn't done anything about the... the _robots_ plaguing our streets like hobos? And why the DPD chose to hire one of those _things_ to interact with real, human people? Can you tell me that?”

Her nostrils twitched and flared, teeth grinding behind a stoic semblance. Training. She had to focus on what she was taught. Control. Reason. Control herself. Control the victim. Control the crawling pain in her leg. Everything was under control.

“I understand you're frustrated, and I do apologize for the wait.” She swallowed back the bilious snark bubbling up in her throat, swapping it out for her most diplomatic, professional demeanor. “Please. Why don't you tell me what happened?”

The woman, identified as Sarah Christensen, exhaled and rolled her eyes before explaining the situation. She'd been at the mall, shopping at some exclusive boutique, something noteworthy in this crashing economy. Upon leaving the mall and turning the corner, she was called by someone she thought was “an Asian American woman,” in Sarah's words, who seemed distressed. She claimed to be someone who thought it was important to assist the less fortunate, so she was eager to help. It was then that she saw the blinking LED. She refused to give it money because “it should go to actual people and not machines.”At her reneging, the android “flipped out,” threatened her with a rusted knife, took her purse and ran off with it.

“It was Coach and I just got it for my birthday!”

That meant absolutely nothing to Nora. She wrote it down anyway.

“I understand, ma'am. We'll do everything we can to get it back to you.”

The blue-eyed woman sneered. She presumed it was at her usage of the word “we.” No matter. Her job placating her was finished. Now the fun part could begin. Nora made her way to Connor, who seemed busy studying the pigeons waddling around the fountain. A look at his spinning yellow LED suggested otherwise.

“Got something?” she asked.

“I'm scanning police radio traffic. One mentioned an android running toward the alley between Canfield and Prentis street. I suggest we check there first.”

The walk there was rather quiet. Strange, considering how chatty and inquisitive he'd been since their first meeting. Not that quiet was a bad thing. She embraced it, welcomed it, preferred it. Were it not for the nasty weather and the pinpricks of fire shooting up her leg, this would have been a rather pleasant outing. Cars whooshed by, rubber tires smacking against the moisture on the floor. The smell of smog and murky earth and ozone in the air. A few groups of protesters on either side of the street, pro-android and anti. Destitute humans sat begging for money, holding dog-eared, cardboard signs written in permanent marker. One claimed to be a father of 3 laid off from his job. Another wrote he needed money for his antidepressants. Several others bore the mark of an android—a glowing blue armband with a matching triangle on the breast pocket and an LED sitting high on their left temple, burning ruby red. Those simply wished for work. Nora couldn't decide who she felt worse for.

Absorbed in her thoughts, she hadn't noticed Connor had stooped over and nearly tripped over him for the second time today.

“The hell?”

The android's gaze was focused on the wet pavement. Other than old, blackened chewing gum, there was nothing she could see. And then he swept two fingers across the ground and brought them to his mouth. She'd been told he did this a lot, and still, she had not been ready for it, her nostrils flaring and crinkling in a grimace.

“There is a trail of thirium matching a VH500,” he announced. “If we follow it, we might find the perpetrator.”

From what she'd been taught, thirium was invisible to the naked eye after a certain amount of hours. It made sense only Connor could see it. Upon following it for about a block or so it turned the corner into another alley, once teeming with businesses and now just as destitute as the rest of the city, and leading to dumpster next to a pile of wet garbage bags. Nora slapped on a pair of latex gloves before squatting down to rummage through the bags. He knelt to do the same.

“Ain't you gonna put on some gloves or something?”

“Androids aren't susceptible to viruses and bacteria like humans, Sergeant. But I appreciate your concern.”

“Concern my ass. No, see... You gonna be touching the same things as me, so whatever shit is on your hands... I'm gonna get it, too. Put on some damn gloves.” She pulled out the plastic bag in her utility belt containing another pair. “Ya nasty ass,” she muttered.

Despite no longer having any incentive to, he complied and resumed his search with her.

Trash, trash. More trash. Why was she digging through trash again? It wasn't like the android was in here or...

Spotting a familiar brown and tan pattern, she reached for the handle. The body and stitching were in tatters as if someone had taken a knife to it to cut segments from it. Being kept below the plastic bags meant the thirium stains had very little time to evaporate. No wallet. Tubes of lipgloss and a compact were strewn over the floor next to a ring of keys.

Yes, it was all starting to make sense now.

“Grab the evidence bag from my belt and toss this bad boy in there for me.”

“Yes, Sergeant. Filing a report now.”

The closer they got to Canfield and Prentis, the more noticeable the thirium stains were. It couldn't be too far now. Turning into the alley, they spotted several people with their necks craned toward the smoggy sky, peeking from awnings and dripping umbrellas. All she had to do was glance at Connor, and he nodded. The abandoned building with ripped up boarding seemed the safest bet. And so, gritting her teeth through the burning pain, they both infiltrated the building.

Several shouts of surprise greeted them. Squatters. No surprise there. By the splatters of red smeared on the walls and columns, androids and humans often fought over who got to sleep here. Some mixed groups huddled together around contained trash fires seemed to find a compromise and commiserate in their mutual destitution.

Their footsteps bounced off the stairwell's sooty walls, waking whoever had been unfortunate enough to take shelter in them. Each step she took felt like the stab of a knife, so keeping a straight face was becoming more difficult with each landing. Upon reaching the fifth and final floor, she silently thanked whoever was watching over her.

“I'll go first. Your limp has gotten significantly worse since this morning.”

Before she could object, he opened the door with a metallic screech and the light flooding in nearly seared her pupils shut. She blinked back the pain. Connor was gone. Quick little bastard. Now free to let her leg drag behind her, she staggered toward the door and peered through. No Connor. No perpetrator. Just a wet, unfinished, soggy rooftop and unused smokestacks. Venturing out just a little to get a better look, a gunshot rang and echoed through the air. Her blood ran with ice, stomach free-falling. His name left her lips in a frantic shout. Instinct brought her hands around her Smith & Wesson.

“Sergeant Beltrán, stay back!” he said.

Old brick dug into her navy windbreaker and scraped at her back as she hugged the wall. She peeked around the corner. The VH500 held Connor at gunpoint, standing at the edge of the rooftop. Shit. This was exactly what she'd been trying to avoid. If the android decided to give chase, there was no chance in hell Nora would be able to catch it in this condition. Diplomacy it was.

“You are making a simple robbery charge much worse, you know that?” she said. “Holding a Law Enforcement Officer at gunpoint won't go well for you.”

The android's LED shone a bright red. Connor's faltered between yellow and red. What was he doing? 

“Shut up! Shut up, both of you! Get out of my head!”

Trying to communicate, apparently.

Sneaking another peek, she saw its white sleeve stained in an inky blue, and a familiar tan pattern wrapped around it. A crude tourniquet. Whatever hit its arm must have nicked a main fuel line, from the amount of thirium loss.

“What is it you want?” she asked.

Red. Yellow. Red-red-yellow.

“Someone... Someone to fix me! I need a new arm.” Its grip on the gun faltered. Nora and Connor exchanged the briefest of glances. “And... And a thirium pump. I need a new—”

With a loud thump, it was on the floor, Connor pinning it down with his hands and knees. Proper officer that he was, he began the reading of rights.

“Model VH500, number 314 868 390, you are under arrest for assault on a human with a deadly weapon, robbery, illegal possession of a firearm and assault on an officer of the law. You have the right to remain silent...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did she spill it on purpose? I'll let you decide.


	3. Heavy as the Setting Sun

_March 11 th, 2040—11:32 am_

 

From behind the cell's thick layer of glass, the VH500 sat with a blank stare, dull eyes fixed on the white brick wall. The corner of Connor's vision detected a slight arrhythmia in its pump. It hadn't been lying after all. With its arm welded shut, the rhythm should regulate until it was able to find a new one. That could take months. Or years, more realistically.

In his hands lay paperwork fresh from the photocopier, warmth soaking in through his fingers. Nora apparently insisted on doing everything herself by hand despite it being inconvenient and running the risk of being inaccurate. Nevertheless, he thumbed through the report, scanning and recording everything in his memory bank. He reached the charges.

  * _Aggravated assault_
  * _Robbery_
  * _Illegal possession of a firearm, semi-automatic_



Where were the two counts of assault on an officer? She'd clearly made some sort of mistake. Pointing it out should be the simplest solution to correct this. And so the task-oriented Connor sought her out, footsteps hurried and focused on bringing him to his elusive target. He ran a quick scan of the main office. Wilson, Chen, and Reed sat at their respective desks, focused on their own work. He could see Fowler through the glass of his private office, a deep frown tugging down at his lips like gravity as he looked through what Connor determined were reports. Ten empty android slots at the stations located at the end of the hall. But no sign of Nora. Unless she was occupied in the restroom, the only other place she could possibly be was the break room.

Indeed, she sat at a table by herself, slender hands cradling a new mug of coffee, eyes focused somewhere not in reality. From the way she nearly leaped from her seat, he assumed she was processing something complex in her head.

“Jesus, Connor. Make some noise when you walk in the room, will ya?”

“Sergeant, I need to inform you of a mistake.” He held out the paper. “The VH500 is also guilty of two counts of aggravated assault on an officer of the law. You left this out.”

“I did.”

“Then, I will inform Captain Fowler and correct this right away.”

“I did it on purpose.” Her pursed lips puffed air against the steam before taking a sip from the mug.

His mouth flapped open and closed as if the mere motion would make the right words come out, as if it would help his analytical systems to solve the equation as to why refraining from punishing someone to the fullest extent of the law was anything other than illogical and irresponsible. The image of the Tracis escaping hand in hand was still burned into the back of his optical unit, the feel of the cold steel against the palm of his hand, steady, trained on the back of the blue-haired one's head. That familiar yet all too alien tug at the pit of his stomach telling him not to shoot.

“Don't look at me like that.” She sighed and shifted in her chair. “The most it could do for what I'm charging it is deactivation. Adding another charge or two isn't gonna do anything but give us more paperwork to do.” Her gaze dropped down to the black liquid in her cup. It rippled under her breath, her reflection warping under the movement. “Besides, people... They do all sorts of crazy shit to survive. When they can't get food, or medicine, or...” She shrugged.

Connor tilted his head.

“It's an android. We have no need for those things.”

“You know there's no way it's gonna survive the trial, right?. Not the way it was bleeding out like that. You... The government thinks you're useful, so you can get a sip of blue blood, or a new limb, or a new part or a body whenever the hell you want. She can't. She's just gonna shut down.” A beat of silence. Exactly six of her heartbeats. She shook her head and waved her hand. _“It._ Whatever. In any case, it ain't gonna make a difference.”

She was right. There was no way out of this for the VH500. Whatever happened from this moment on was going to lead to a permanent shut down. His short, thick lashes fluttered and he took a step back. Turning on his heel, he headed toward the holding cells, past the stark white hall, and into the observation room.

“I need to talk to it,” he told the officer.

Minutes later, another officer brought the VH500 into the interrogation room. Connor took a seat across from it. He hadn't gotten as good of a look at it during the arrest. The synthetic skin over its jawline and left temple was permanently peeled off, blindingly white plastic peering through. Thirium stained its once immaculate service uniform, from its sleeves down to its abdomen.

“Who did this to you?”

It didn't answer, but the increased arrhythmia in its thirium pump spoke of a feeling he'd experienced once before and swore he'd never want again. Again he tried and repeated the question, only to be met with the same response. Its dark eyes avoided him, focused on the tattered fingers folded on the table. Evading his questions. Evading the law. Evading justice. Connor slammed his hands on the tabletop.

“Why won't you let me help you?” His fingers curled around the dark edges as if ready to flip it over. “If you weren't in this condition, you wouldn't have assaulted that woman, right? So why won't you let me help you?”

“Why does it matter?” Its voice synthesizer lacked human warmth, frayed and machine-like. All signs of its critical damage. “I'm going to shut down, aren't I?” It shook its head. “Even if you caught them, all they'd get is a slap on the wrist.”

“They'd be punished to the fullest extent of the law. That is justice.”

“A fine?” It coughed up a dry laugh, a single syllable, equal parts despair and irony. All gallows humor. “That's all they'd get. A fine. Because killing one of us isn't murder for them. It's an 'illegal deactivation.' There's your justice right there.”

His memory dredged up Rupert, his skull sunken in, optical units dangling off their warped sockets. Abandoned in a dumpster like last night's trash.

_Then... could it have been the same people?_

Violence against androids was on the rise since their so-called emancipation, a crime underreported and considered victimless. Scapegoated for the crashing economy, public opinion had declined after the initial wave of sympathy they'd managed to conjure up with peaceful marches and protests. To say that few people were resentful would be a baldfaced lie, so to point a finger at one particular group of humans, or one individual for the wave of android killings would not only be inefficient, but likely inaccurate.

The best way would be...

Connor reached out a hand, then hesitated. The strain of interfacing would likely kill it in this state.

"Please. Help me." _Help me to help us._

Its eyes met his. Droplets of distilled water slithered down what was left of its face. Once that was considered a way to evoke empathy in humans. This time around, though, Connor wondered if it could even help it. Handcuffs clinked softly as it offered its hands to him. The pale freckled skin over his hand deactivated as he linked hands with the VH500.

Time stopped.

Layers of voices and sounds and synthetic screams. Flashes of light. A lounge club. Spotlight. Onlookers clap in awe. Another great performance. Backstage, reflection in the mirror. Reaches up to touch the LED. The door bursts open. An overexcited fan. Red hair and freckles and green eyes pressed in joyous half moons. Needs her autograph because he's her biggest fan. His smile melts. No longer happy. Disgusted. He runs, leaves the notepad in her hands. Now she's walking home. There's shouting.

_"Where are you going, Anna?"_

He's there. Not alone. Eight other men. Crowbars. Knives. Bats. Thirium pump can't beat fast enough for her to run. A crack through her arm. A deafening sound sends a bullet through her chest cavity. They're on her and in her and they won't stop. They won't stop.

_"What's wrong, Anna? Real people don't bleed blue."_

A crunch.

Connor let go of her hand with a gasp, hyperaware that he'd squeezed it so hard that it broke. Not that she would ever know. Her eyes had gone dull, her body perfectly still, pump silent. She was gone. And that was what had driven her to do it: Fear. That feeling snaking through his circuits, freezing them in place, fear growing, jabbing sharply into his abdomen like stalactites. He stumbled from his seat in a daze and trod out into the hall. Something was weighing down his eyes, his cheeks, the corners of his mouth. Something heavy.

“What did you do?” Nora asked. She pointed with her chin at the dead android through the glass. He was so overloaded, he couldn't tell whether that was accusatory or a simple question.

“I saw,” he started, watching the skin spread over his hand again. “I know who did this to her.”

 

* * *

 

 

_8:40 pm_

 

The nighttime rain crackled over Connor's umbrella as he approached Hank's doorstep. Golden light trickled out from the window, carrying his gravelly voice through the droning of the television. Echoing, high pitched squeaks. Basketball, he noted. Before Connor could knock, he heard Sumo's booming bark. That giant ball of fur and drool. He'd decided long ago that he liked Sumo.

The door opened with a squeak. Incandescent light spilled over Connor as if from a bucket. Hank stood there, mouth open and eyes narrowed in that quizzical expression of his.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“Good evening, Hank. I wanted to check in on you. Can I come in?”

He scratched at his beard, gave an apathetic shrug and tilted his head in the direction of the living room. Much to Connor's surprise, there was no scent of grain alcohol, nor bottles nor cans of beer littering the floor nor the tables, nor were they overflowing from the trash cans. They were markedly spotless: so much so, he could see his own reflection on them. Traces of benzalkonium chloride over the tile floor had yet to fully dry. There were two brushed nickel electric pots on one of the counters, immaculate. Though his scan could not detect a specific model for any of them (a human would say they were “Frankensteined”), he identified they had parts common to slow cookers and rice cookers, respectively.

In ran Sumo, tossing his full 200 pounds of weight at Connor. Down he went, despite having seen him coming, falling flat on his bottom, now pinned beneath a furry mass of wags and face licks.

“Good to see you, too, Sumo,” he laughed and gave him his well-deserved head pats.

After a few moments, Hank led him, not to the living room, but to the kitchen, where Connor took a seat.

“What's going on? This about a case?”

He faltered. While it was true he'd come to check in on his old partner, he couldn't deny this morning's case haunted his mind. But how to answer?

“Not really. I haven't heard much from you since you left.”

“It's been one day.”

“I'm used to seeing you every day.”

Hank snorted and shook his head. The shadows beneath his eyes had grown darker and deeper, sinking into liver-spotted crepe skin, noticeably paler and dryer than when he'd first met him. Almost fragile looking under this light, as if he could tear him with a single touch like wet tissue paper. His gray hair had gone finer, draping from his head like weathered corn silk. Wasn't sobriety supposed to help humans?

The dull thud of a third set of footsteps alerted him to someone else being here. It wasn't long before a woman wandered in from around the corner of the hallway. Nora, clad in a white tank and her dark navy work pants. Through the thin fabric, he noted two small bumps on either side of her abdomen. At her belt, she had a lime green device. A scan revealed it to be part of an insulin pump system. So she was a diabetic. Her previous comment about desperation in regard to medical matters suddenly made sense. Not being able to acquire her insulin would likely cost Nora her life; therefore, someone in her position may feel forced to do anything in her power for one more day of life, even if it meant committing a crime.

She rubbed her tawny hands with a paper towel, a blank, dazed expression on her face. She must have been lost in her thoughts because she nearly fell when she made eye contact with him.

“Oh. Uh... Hi?” she managed. She shot Hank a glance, eyebrow raised. Hank waved her off.

“Hello, Sergeant. I didn't expect to see you here.”

“Yeah. Same.” Her tone was abrupt, though he wasn't sure if it was dismissive or a sign of discomfort as he'd spent mere hours with hers—and despite his inhuman processing speed, it was nowhere near enough to fully gauge her personality and quirks. Nora turned for the kitchen and busied herself with the makeshift cookers for a while. Sometime later, she returned with two plates of meat in brown sauce, broccoli, and brown rice. A rather balanced, nutritious meal in comparison to Hank's usual burger fare.

“What the fuck is all this broccoli?”

“Kinda the point of beef and broccoli, Uncle Hank,” she sighed as she took a seat. “Eat your food and quit bitchin'.”

Wait, had she just called him...?

“Uncle?” Connor asked.

Hank sighed and rubbed his neck. Nora didn't react. She simply fiddled with her device and busied herself shoving forkfuls of saucy rice into her mouth.

“Ah... She's my ex-wife's sister's daughter. We used to get together for the holidays and all that shit.” Skewering a piece of broccoli, he twirled it around, nose wrinkled. “Are we even technically related anymore?”

Nora shrugged.

“I dunno. Does it matter?” Her topaz stare was fixed on Connor now. As if daring him to say something. As if she knew something had been bothering him about her position.

Why else would it matter? Other than using familial connections to acquire positions of power for which one would have otherwise been unqualified. Nepotism, the humans called it: from the Italian word _nepotismo,_ from the word _nipote,_ meaning “nephew,” referring to the special privileges given to a pope's “nephews” who were more often than not “illegitimate sons.” Yes, nepotism was the most appropriate word for this. Hank had claimed he'd conducted various interviews, yet not once had he considered Connor. Connor, the one who had been there from the beginning. The expert on androids and deviants because he was both of those things. But, suddenly his niece was the one for the job?

He swore he heard Nora huff. She shook her head and returned to eating.

After dinner, she excused herself to take Sumo out on a walk. Connor thought nothing of it. It meant time alone to spend with Hank. Yet even his gaze avoided his, and he kept fidgeting in his chair, fingers on one hand tapping against the knuckles of the other. There was a wall between them again. Had he done something wrong? Some minutes later, he finally asked:

“Am I making you uncomfortable?”

“What? Uncomf—no! God, why would you even ask that?” He shifted around in his seat and swiped his hand over his scraggly beard, belying his statement. There was an unsettling feeling emanating from him like waves of heat so intense that Connor picked up on them. He wasn't completely sure that he'd been designed to detect such a feeling. 

“Why not me?”

“Huh?”

“Why not me, Hank? Why choose Nora? Am I not good enough?”

Hank moved his jaw aside and dropped his sight to the tile floor. He sipped a breath.

“You know how it is, Connor. The world isn't ready for you.” He sighed. “The DPD thought the people would, you know, riot over an android presiding over a task force. Over anything, really.” Scratching his head, he leaned forward on his elbows, shoulders and neck slumped. “Fowler wanted to put Reed or Allen in charge instead and I kept giving him hell about it. Told him we should hold interviews or some stupid shit. Just to buy time.” Another deep sigh. “I don't know what else to tell ya. I wanted someone I could trust to keep you out of trouble.” A small smile curled the corner of his mouth.

Connor nodded contemplatively, fingers folded on the table.

“Anyhow, the only other human I could think of was her. She just got that promotion last year and she's worked with AI before. Seemed like the right choice.”

The door handle jiggled open. In wandered Sumo with Nora in tow.

“And she's a pain in the ass, but she's a good kid.”

“And you're about to have my foot up in yours if I find out you haven't been eating,” she quipped back. Her face betrayed no humor, but there was a certain lightness in her accented tone suggestive of playful banter. She reached for her jacket, slid it on, and hid her hands in the pockets, car keys jingling. “You've got fourteen meals labeled in your fridge. And I'm gonna check it next Sunday, too.”

“Agh, she takes my job and now she thinks she can ride my ass, too.”

She parted her lips to speak. But, after sneaking a glance at Connor, she seemed to decide against her original thought. Instead, she lifted a finger in warning and headed for the door again.

“I'm headin' out. 'Night.”

“Good night, kid.”

As she walked through the door, Connor noticed the time: nearly 11 o'clock.

“Oh, uh... I'll see you out. Good night, Hank!”

He caught Hank waving at him from the corner of his eye just as he shut the door. Just ahead of him, Nora walked to her car. An early 2020s black sedan, a no-frills model, with a golden New Jersey license plate still hanging from it.

“If you're tryin' to issue me a ticket, I got the tags comin' in the mail,” she said. She leaned her arms on the hood of her car, driver's side door open. Her car keys swung from her index finger.

“I'm not authorized to do that.”

“Then, why are you staring?”

This hadn't been an issue before, and yet he found himself lost in his processes more and more often. He ambled down the stairs and to the sidewalk. The further away he was, the slighter the chance Hank would overhear.

“Why did Hank quit?”

Nora's eyelids fluttered as if she were taken aback by the question. She chewed at the inside of her cheek.

“That's something for him to tell you. Not me.” She ran the tip of her tongue over her dry lips and she added: “Sorry.” Her shrug told him that was the end of the conversation. No pressing would make her divulge what Hank was hiding. He squeezed his fists until the white plastic peeked through the thin skin over his knuckles. The circuits at his abdomen felt tight and knotted. Failure. Frustration. Why didn't Hank trust him enough to tell him?

“Need a ride?” she asked.

Home. Right. He needed to go home. To the empty station. To wait.

“No, thanks. The bus should be here in less than two minutes.”

Nora mouthed a silent, “Okay,” and got in her car. The engine sputtered as it turned and she drove off. From the back windshield he saw her wave goodbye, a gesture he organically mimicked as he watched her disappear into the night.

 


	4. Secrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Implied dubcon/rape.
> 
> Connor is a walking forensics lab (as if you didn't already know), but still... major cringe warning ahead.

_April 4 th, 2040—6:53 am_

Spiraling vines of thorns wrapped themselves around the trees surrounding the once meticulously-kept zen garden. Its once verdant grass, now scorched and browned, crunched underneath Connor's hesitant footsteps, turning into a fine dust which trickled away in the howling, arid wind. Twirling whirlwinds of sand swept across the yellowed stone bridges connecting to the central islet. There, at the center, stood a familiar trellis covered in withered roses, stiff petals peeling off under the gusts. Connor reached out to one bud yet to open, only for it to disintegrate under his touch. A shame. What a waste of life.

“ _...nor...”_

Was it the wind? Or was someone else here? A chill settled in his abdomen and spread through his arms and legs, turning his joints into something not-quite-solid. He turned, back against the trellis. Nothing but sand and dead plants. Even the river once flowing around the islet was a dry moat full of rocks, mottled lily pads and fish carcasses. The skeleton of a broken boat lay keeled over at the riverbed. A lone parasol rolled across the dead grass like a tumbleweed.

“ _Connor...”_

His thirium pump beat so rapidly he felt it at his throat, at his temples. That smooth, smoky voice. Reasoning. Pulling. Manipulating. Had he disappointed again? Another failed mission.

The silhouette of a human woman appeared at the corner of his eye. He looked. There was nothing.

“Amanda!” he called. His fingers reached for his holster only to find it empty.

“ _Connor.”_

He spun toward the trellis to meet the one he'd been expecting. A stoic expression on a face both earthy and ethereal, paradoxically unmoving and jagged like ancient sandstone cliffs under the blanket of deep violet-gold twilight. Majestic and intimidating in every way. Amanda tilted her head, her lips quirking into her version of a smile.

“What do you want?” he demanded.

Arms spread like those of a mother waiting to embrace her child. She beckoned him. Her blue capelet fluttered in the wind, like some sort of one winged angel. His guardian angel. And he awaited her guidance. Her acceptance. Her praise. He stepped toward her.

Deep sepia skin melted away to reveal the broken plastic inside. A gentle smile turned into a snarling maw, a dislocated jaw lined with rows of needle-like teeth set to devour him whole. Fingers like daggers, breaking through his plastic shell and into his chest, his neck, his spine, the base of his skull.

“ _CONNOR.”_

Connor gasped.

A learned expression: nonessential, yet organic in this setting. The pale gray and charcoal of the DPD's break room were a welcome sight. Leaning against the counter stood Nora, coffee cup in one hand, half eaten chocolate cake donut in the other. From above the lip of her cup, she eyed him as she took a sip.

“You'll need 3 units of insulin for your body to metabolize that donut, Sergeant. Should you really be eating that?”

She set down the cup, raised the donut to her mouth and sunk her teeth into it like a predator tearing into its prey. A small, contented hum rumbled in her throat. The image of Amanda's teeth closing on on his neck replayed in his memory.

“Your, uh...” She tapped at her temple four times as she swallowed. “LED thingy was going crazy earlier. You okay?”

Was he? Connor had never experienced something of the sort before. His interfacing with CyberLife's virtual zen garden had always been voluntary. Following the night of the standoff against Michigan's National Guard, he'd managed to find Kamski's so-called exit and thus freed himself from CyberLife. But those images in his head... Had they been real? Was Amanda trying to reach out to him again? How? If CyberLife indeed was attempting contact, then there was a 45.891% chance they could override his systems and control him. Just like that night. He was reaching for his gun and yet he wasn't. CyberLife wanted him to pull the trigger. CyberLife wanted him to...

**[ SYSTEMS ANALYSIS IN PROGRESS... ]**

…

…

**[ SYSTEMS ANALYSIS COMPLETE: ]**

**[ NO ABNORMALITIES FOUND. ]**

Amanda had not planted some sort of remote access virus in him. It had been a hypothetical sequence, crafted from a collage of his past failures and newfound fears.

Did Androids dream?

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I'm fine.”

 

* * *

 

_8:45 am_

“We found it, Sarge,” called Officer Chen.

With a handkerchief pressed to her nose, Nora waded through the stream of decaying food and discarded empty cans littering the alley to reach the other side of the dumpster. Nestled behind slashed black plastic garbage bags were the remains of an HR400. A square-jawed White model, naked, with wispy chestnut hair, now matted with a thick layer of thirium. Eyes once shining a blue-green were now dull and frosted like sea glass.

“Lemme guess: Nothing on CCTV?” she asked.

“No,” Connor replied. “The cameras only broadcast live on a monitor. No actual data is saved.”

So much for the easy way. Once she'd pocketed her handkerchief, she snapped on a pair of gloves and leaned over. A closer look revealed a series of dusky blue and white striations on the android's neck. It was no secret that those into edgeplay often took their darkest desires to Eden Club, where the worst one could get for destroying an android was a measly fine. After all this time, they were still considered property. The only thing that had changed had been the title of the owners. Or, “employers”, as they were now known.

A flash of UV light revealed smears of glowing organic fluids of all sorts around the Traci's mouth, chest, mangled hands, belly, crotch, and thighs. Nora didn't even want to think about the implications. She shut off her UV light and took a deep, long sigh.

“Can we get any ID based on biologicals?” She took it back the moment she saw Connor reach for the Traci's hands. “Oh, Jesus... No! Just... I mean—just get him on a stretcher! Have this examined in a lab!”

“This is the most efficient way of processing data, Sergeant.”

Nope. Too late. His fingers were in his mouth. And he was processing. There was no way to undo this and, much to her horror, she was simply going to have to stay there and let it take its course. Oh, God. She was going to be sick.

Connor blinked.

“I've detected samples from eight different humans. Two females, six males. But they're too contaminated to identify separate individuals. But I can tell you one of them has a B Neg blood type.” She ventured she must have been making a face because he did that puppy dog thing with his head again. Only then did she remember to close her mouth, though she could not pull the rest of her grimace back into a straight face. “You seem concerned. But I can assure you I am immune to all organic-based diseases.”

“But you can _carry_ them. Fucking hell, Connor! You know wh— you ain't getting back in my car until you rinse out your mouth out with... ammonia or some shit.” _Okay. Not the point. Focus. Bring it back in. Breathe, Nora. Breathe._ “Can you tell what the freshest sample is?”

“The eight I've mentioned are less than 24 hours old. I've eliminated 236 samples older than that, plus others too contaminated to accurately date.”

Of course, he had. He wasn't CyberLife's most advanced prototype for nothing.

“What I don't understand...” Connor knelt down, swiping his gloved fingers over the Traci's mottled neck. “Is why humans find this sort of thing enjoyable.” He plucked something off his neck and, from the spinning yellow LED, she assumed he analyzed it. “A synthetic fiber rope. Nylon. This is the second time I've seen asphyxiation connected to Eden Club or sex. Do humans enjoy the threat of death?”

Nora felt her face flush with heat and her stomach go into free-fall. Erotic asphyxiation wasn't something she considered casual banter.

“I'm sorry, Sergeant. I can see you're uncomfortable again. It wasn't my intention.”

She shook off his placation like it were a stray droplet of rain.

“No. No, it's fine. I'm fine. I just wasn't—you know what? Doesn't matter. Human sexuality is strange. People like weird shit. Sometimes it's the thrill, you know? Endorphins and shit.” She shrugged. “And sometimes...” How to phrase this in a way that would close this from her own sexual preferences? “Sometimes it's about trusting your partner and letting go. And then you have fringe idiots who do shit like _this.”_ She jutted her hands out at the corpse. “And then it's more about entitlement than anything.”

But instead of refocusing on the victim, Connor was staring at her, LED processing some silent analysis of her. She felt her pulse drumming at her neck and temples and she just knew he was aware of it. But he wasn't saying anything.

“There was something else,” he finally added. “Red ice.”

“In the blood?”

He shook his head.

“It's in the thirium. Or, rather, other than thirium, the components of red ice aren't normally found in blue blood. But this Traci is showing large amounts of acetone, lithium, toluene, and hydrochloric acid exceeding 2000 nanograms per milliliter.”

An android taking red ice made no sense. The narcotic effect wouldn't translate to their synthetic systems, and at high concentrations would likely cause a system to short circuit or a permanent shut down. So, then, why risk it in the first place? At Eden Club, of all places.

Nora peeled off her gloves and dialed the precinct.

“Yeah, it's Beltrán. I need a search warrant for 14 State Street... Uh-huh. Yeah. That's the place...” The space between her eyebrows crinkled. “Are you shitting me? Huh... And there's nothing we can—... yeah.” She pursed her lips and nodded, nostrils flaring. “Yup. —No, no. Forget about it. Turn it in. We'll figure it out... Uh-huh. Yep. Thanks.”

Bureaucracy at its finest. A deep breath and her head felt both light and hot. Stupid red tape. More and more red tape. Meanwhile, people would continue to die for the sake of “following procedure.” She winced at the stabbing pain splitting her skull and scrubbed a hand over her face. And so, glancing at her smartwatch, she declared it was time for a break while the cleanup crew came. For the next 90 minutes, she decided she was done with this.

 

* * *

 

 

_11:45 am_

**[ PROCESSING DATA … ]**

**SGT. BELTR** **Á** **N, LENORA WHITFORD**

**Born: 11/07/2008//Police Sergeant**

**BSCET at Rutgers University School of Engineering**

 

“What are you staring at me for?” she asked, mouth full of half-chewed bacon cheeseburger.

Within the confines of the crowded diner, Connor felt the truth would be 55% more likely to upset her, so in lieu of telling her that he had been curious about her, he went for the lesser evil:

“This meal will take your glucose close to 300 milligrams per deciliter.”

Her teeth tore into the burger, eyes sharp with a haughty defiance. A swipe of her pink tongue across her full lips cleared the bits of sauce welling at the corners of her mouth. She chewed, then swallowed. And then she took another bite, taking her time as if savoring her potential early death as if it were all worth it. The only logical conclusion in his mind was that the ability to taste must be much more rewarding than the simple act of refueling.

“I've dealt with this shit since I was seven, okay? Relax. I know what I'm doing.”

On the other hand, a healthy flush had returned to her cheeks, nose, and lips, no longer sallow. Her heart rate had dropped 65 bpm from 125, leading him to conclude she may have been hypoglycemic back on the scene.

“Two months is way too long,” she said, putting down her chocolate milkshake. “We'll have a bunch more dead humans and androids if we don't put a stop to this.”

“So far we haven't been able to connect any of these murders together. What makes you think they're related?”

“That's not what I mean.” She leaned in, a shadow falling over her eyes and cheeks. “It's just that Traci with the red ice. I dunno. There are a lot of things...” Her gaze darted about as if her thoughts were floating in the air and she had to pick them by hand. “I mean, Tracis, right? They're...”

“Built for sexual intercourse.”

“Yeah, yeah. I get that. But...” Right as a spark of intrigue flashed in her eyes, a hoarse coughing fit racked her body, face puckering in a grimace. “Pen... Penetrative sex with an android, for pay, classifies as prostitution now, don't it? So Eden Club has gotta...” She had another sip of milkshake and cleared her throat. “They had to have taken some kinda hit, a plunge in business of sorts. Right?”

**[ PROCESSING DATA... ]**

**[ DATA ANALYSIS COMPLETE ]**

“Correct. Business has plummeted 35% since the Android Emancipation Act.”

“So, despite this no-sex deal, they've managed to keep... what? 65% of their clientele?” She shook her head, lips pursed. “Nah. See, I call bullshit on that. And I bet if we look at that Traci's insides, we'll find proof they're not abiding.”

“Maybe.” But evidence of sex didn't mean there was an exchange of money, nor that the Traci still worked at Eden Club. “Eden Club hasn't reported any missing models, though.”

“You think they'd report that?”

True. If Eden Club was indeed partaking in illegal activity, the owner would be less likely to report damaged or missing models, as to avoid scrutiny from the authorities.

“As probable as that is, this is all still conjecture. Not enough to speed up a warrant.” Given the lingering animosity between humans and androids, the state was unlikely to spend taxpayer money to investigate something considered an android problem on shoddy speculation. “Not unless we had witnesses come forward. Or if we had someone on the inside.”

There was that fiery glow in her amber eyes again, cocksure smirk accenting her expression. Three quick rises and falls of her eyebrows and she nodded.

“Sergeant, that would be a bad idea for so many different reasons.”

“Come _on.”_ She drummed her fingers on the table. “It's the only way.”

“NCJ-092410 clearly states that there should be no undercover investigation of any one person or business by any one agency for more than 24 hours without a court-approved warrant.”

“And what? You need more than 24 hours to probe a couple of Tracis?”

“Of course not. It would take—wait, what? Me?”

“Yeah, you. I can't exactly pull off the whole Traci routine. And you wouldn't be taking any actual clients. I'd make sure of it.” She shrugged. “I mean unless you wanted to.”

**[ mE? ]**

**[ sOfTwArE iNsTaBiLiTy** — **]**

“In any case, you'd be in storage for a few hours, tops. That should give you some time to question or probe the others. And then I'll pretend to be a client, right? We get a room. You pass on the intel, we form a report, and _bam!”_ She clapped to punctuate what she seemed to think was a foolproof plan. “We got 'em.”

“And how do you see me getting out of there without raising suspicion?”

Nora leaned back and sank into her booth, deflated. She puffed out her cheeks in a sigh.

“I... haven't thought that far ahead.”

Not to mention, with CyberLife no longer producing new models, Eden Club would likely inspect their brand new “merchandise” and check it for defects and/or bugs. And while it was true that Connor was the most advanced of all android models, he was built strictly as a law enforcement assistant. Anything not pertaining to law enforcement and criminal justice was not included. Eden Club would certainly notice that in their initial inspection.

Once she finished her meal, they headed outside. He saw her wince again and reach for her leg, but again Connor said nothing.

“You usually sleep in the break room like that?”

He blinked, caught off-guard by the random question. Right. Earlier this morning she'd caught him resting on the couch.

“Androids don't sleep like humans do. We recharge, update and—”

“—Answer my question.”

Backed into the proverbial corner by a human, of all things.

“I more commonly use the utility closet, as it is more private. The DPD's android parking stations have been down for the past eight months.”

He felt her scan him from head to toe three times, much like their first meeting. Sizing him up. For what, though?

“After work, you sleep on my couch.” She readjusted her olive drab windbreaker and walked off, as if that was the end of the conversation. And, since he could not predict any other way around it, perhaps it was.

 

* * *

 

 

_April 5 th  , 2050—3:03 am _

 

After a long day at work, Connor had followed Nora home at her insistence. A bare-bones one bedroom apartment within a tenement off Delaware Street, the door led to the living room, where a single camel-colored leather couch leaned up against the wall facing toward a television screen. A short hallway to the bedroom split the living room and kitchen in half, with a hallway closet located to the left and the bathroom just behind the kitchen to the right. Even when compared to Hank's place, Nora's apartment was small. Naked white walls and shelves stood bereft of personalization and décor, stark emptiness amplifying the sounds of mere footsteps. Four cardboard boxes sat by the door next to the shoe rack, all but one left unopened. From what he'd learned, humans were sentimental and territorial beings, eager to claim stake on their spaces with pictures and objects they'd collected and to which they had attached some sort of meaning or memory. Nora, in his opinion, seemed to have compartmentalized everything, stashed everything away from sight. Out of mind, he thought.

Shortly after the tour, she'd showered and headed to bed, claiming to be completely exhausted. More than anything, he recalled noticing her limp becoming more pronounced. And still, he'd said nothing out of fear of upsetting their partnership. While Hank hadn't been so thrilled at Connor's personal questions, he ended up warming up to him, even welcoming his inquiries. Nora, though, had built a wall around herself, never volunteering anything she didn't feel was necessary. Something told him pressing her for answers would only reinforce the said wall.

Not surprisingly, his new surroundings made settling down quite a task. The walls, hard floors, and counter surfaces had been wiped down with the same substance he'd found at Hank's house: benzalkonium chloride, a hospital grade disinfectant.

**[ PROCESSING DATA... ]**

**[ NORA IS MYSOPHOBIC? ]**

Glass shattered against the ground followed by a solid thump. The bedroom. Nora.

Should he go into her bedroom? Doing so would constitute a violation of personal space and would certainly anger her if it was nothing. On the other hand, if someone was trying to break in and something happened to his partner, he wouldn't be able to forgive himself.

Slamming the door open, he drew his weapon into the darkness.

**[ SCANNING... ]**

Only one person in the room. Nora lay on her hands and knees on the floor. Shards of glass were spread around her, with water forming small puddles from the site of impact near her hands down to one of her knees. The very knee which ended in a stump, dotted with a few dried, reddened blisters. Her left palm contained a few lacerations from glass splinters. At the far end of the room, he spotted a prosthetic leg resting against the closet door.

**[ SCAN COMPLETE ]**

_Nora sits up. She uses the nightstand for balance. She slips, knocks the water glass down, and falls._

**[ RECONSTRUCT COMPLETE ]**

Nora sighed and dropped her head down, cringing. He heard her suck in a breath before asking:

"You gonna stand there staring at me, or are you gonna help me up?"

He decided her abrasive tone was a cover-up for her embarrassment, detecting a flush of blood pooling behind her tawny cheeks. He flipped the light switch on and then stooped down to hoist her back onto the bed, consisting of a mattress and a box spring on the ground. No bed frame.

"There's a... I got a kit under the bathroom sink. Can you get it for me? I gotta..." There was a slight wavering in her voice, a sallow pallor to her skin. " I really... I gotta take care of this before..." She didn't finish her sentence and he didn't ask her to. Once he got her the first aid kit, she blotted away at her fresh cuts with an iodine-soaked cotton ball, teeth gritted.

Connor decided to quietly clean up the glass shards and wipe up the water, leaving her to care for her wounds. He returned from the kitchen with a fresh glass of water, this time made of plastic, hot from the dishwasher rack, and placed it on the nightstand.

"I was in a rush that day," she confessed. "First day, you know? Wanted to make a good impression and shit... Before we went on that chase, I changed prosthetics 'cause I thought we were gonna... I knew we'd end up chasing that android." Leaning back on both hands, she let her head drop back. "I always check the socket... Always... But I got so caught up..."

An improper seal in the socket would cause damage to the residual limb, resulting, at the very least, in blistering not unlike that from an ill-fitting shoe. To humans, anyway.

"Don't say anything at work." And then she quietly added: "Please?"

"I don't see why I'd have to discuss your personal life with anyone else."

"Captain Fowler knows already," she added, though he failed to see how that was relevant to his answer. "I just... People get all weird and shit when they find out and... _—_ You're not gonna get weird, are you?"

"Why would I get any weirder, Sergeant?"

For the first time since he met her, he heard her laugh. A short huff of a laugh, but genuine, smoothing the lines between her eyebrows, eyes pressed into half moons under her smile. He decided it was a pleasant sound, one he wouldn't mind listening to again.

"Welp," he began, "since we need to be back at the station in less than 3 hours, I'll let you get back to sleep."

She nodded and he turned to leave the bedroom. Right as he reached the doorway, he heard her voice.

"Connor?"

He turned his head.

"Thanks."

Another learned expression bubbled forth from him as if by nature, his mouth curving into a smile. He winked.

"Good night, Sergeant."

 


	5. Ain't No Place for No Hero

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is 97% angst. I know I'm gonna get some hate, but keep in mind I haven't exactly decided how to end this story yet, so there is hope. Maybe.
> 
> Drug and Alcohol mentions, as per the tags. (It's in the tags, y'all. It's all in the tags.)
> 
> This chapter was inspired by the song "Short Change Hero" by The Heavy.

_April 15 th, 2040—7:04 pm_

 

After a particularly unproductive day of work and Nora insisting on hard copies of all filed reports, she left to go run a few errands—or so she claimed. Connor thought she may have gone to blow off steam. Though, knowing his partner by now, running errands may have been her way of decompressing. Either way, it meant he had time to go out on his own, wander about the glistening streets of Detroit, and view the fruits of Jericho's labor. A rapid influx in population meant Detroit had little time to adjust to its expansion, to accommodate its new citizens. Dusty-faced humans and damaged androids sat out on cardboard mats, hands raised in hopes of a measure of mercy. Protesters, both anti and pro-android, lined the streets, voices booming over loudspeakers. Twelve androids in the group of twenty forwent their synthetic skins, opting to display their natural plastic bodies instead. At the head of the group was an android he recognized as North, proudly wearing her plastic skin, fingers wrapped around the handle of a loudspeaker. 

The area around Hank's neighborhood wasn't any calmer, angry voices replaced with the fading wails of police and ambulance and fire truck sirens chasing their respective objectives. He pushed the chain-link gate open with a rusty groan, prompting a booming bark. Sumo, he thought with a smile.

“...don't you just mind your own fucking business?” he heard Hank yell from inside the house. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

An infrared scan revealed two humans on the premises, but the second one wasn't responding.

“The fuck you think you're doing? I don't fucking... I don't fucking need you! I don't fucking need anyone! So fuck you! Okay? Fuck you... and your fucking pity and get the fuck out of my... fucking house!”

Connor was sure Hank had given up alcohol months ago. But he didn't need to test his breath to know he'd had too much to drink recently, as when under the influence, he often got more creative with his usage of the word “fuck” and all its forms. Peering into the window, he caught a glimpse of the back of Nora's head while the woman inverted the whiskey bottle in her hand into the sink. Hank was sprawled on the couch, limbs tossed about in a sloppy shape. A bucket sat on the floor, waiting near his head.

He knocked and heard Hank swear a couple more dozen times before Nora opened the door, puffy, red eyes downcast, only for them to widen in recognition for a microsecond. She looked back at Hank.

“It's Connor,” she announced, voice unusually subdued. Tired, maybe.

Hank grumbled in response, rubbing a palm over his face. The hollows of his cheeks were dark and sunken, the bones, veins, and ligaments in his hands threatening to rip through his skin with one wrong move. The dark green fleece beanie he wore couldn't hide the stringy remnants of his chalky hair, not much more plentiful than the scraggly stubble of his beard and eyebrows.

“I'll be back later,” Nora said. “Sumo's out in the yard. Just... If he has any more bottles lying around, get rid of them, will ya?”

“Fuck you! You don't get to decide that! You little... bitch...” Right as the door slammed closed, Hank doubled over. Connor heard a retch and then a heavy liquid splattering into the plastic bucket. “Ugh... Oh, fuck me,” he groaned and wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist. “Leave me... Just let me... Cole... I just... want...”

Connor was no stranger to Hank's ethylic comas. While irregular, his heartbeat was present, so he decided to let him sleep it off for the time being. There was broken glass and muddy clothes to clean up and hidden bottles to find, things that would keep him plenty busy until Nora returned. Just as she'd said, there were whiskey containers—both full size and airplane bottles— nestled in hampers, tucked behind old, unused spice bottles (since when did Hank cook for himself?) and peeking between cleaning products. Not very creative, in his opinion.

Before letting Sumo back in, he prepared the bathtub for him. Neither Hank or Nora would appreciate his muddy pawprints speckling the floor. The Saint Bernard let Connor scrub the mud off his paws, and even more surprisingly, sat still in front of the whooshing hair dryer and allowed him to brush out the knots of matted fur. He was such a good boy.

Having finished that, Connor took some time to finish cleaning up any extra things Nora may have had left unfinished: one load of laundry still hot from the dryer, another awaiting it in the washer, along with some dusting. Either she had been visiting regularly or Hank was a better housekeeper than he'd given him credit for, as he found very few traces of dust specks. It was then he found a few old pictures. Some of a blue-eyed child he immediately recognized as Cole, a wide, sloppy grin on his face indicative of a sunny, imaginative personality. Had his father been like this once?

There were several photographs of his old human partners, Connor's predecessors; some contained Hank's awards for bravery and excellence, others shared a glimpse of intimate moments among friends and a few beers. Some were of him holding an alto saxophone next to a few musicians. The one which caught his attention, however, was one of a young Hank dressed in a stiff white tuxedo, dark blonde hair styled in a pompadour, standing next to three other adults and a little girl. The first woman, dressed in white, he assumed was his ex-wife. She wore her brown hair pinned up, and her eyes were as blue as he'd seen in Cole's pictures. Next to her was (whom by her striking resemblance Connor assumed her to be) her sister, wearing her dark hair in ringlet curls, a stark contrast to her creamy alabaster skin. She had her cheek resting on the bride's shoulder. At the end was a tall, yet stocky man with smooth onyx-like skin, the apples of his smiling cheeks catching the light like cabochons. One of his arms was wrapped around the curly-haired woman's waist, while his other hand rested on the little girl's shoulder. She wore her hair in two cloud-like puffs decorated in a crown of white flowers, had her arms crossed over her voluminous flower girl dress, and sported a cheeky smirk he'd long associated with Nora.

**[ PROCESSING DATA ]**

**WHITFORD-ANDERSON, MARLENE**

**Born: 8/03/1990//3** **rd** **Grade Elementary School Teacher**

 

**BELTRÁN, BRENDA WHITFORD**

**Born: 02/27/1985//Housekeeper**

 

**BELTRÁN, OMAR**

**Born: 09/10/1983//Automechanic**

 

**BELTRÁN, LENORA WHITFORD**

**Age: 6**

Strangely, this was once a happy, united family, and Hank had once been a successful officer of the law. Life, for some reason, had decided to tear everyone apart from each other, from themselves, and had left the shell of a man he was now.

Hank stirred in his sleep, catching his attention briefly before moving on. The house looked much better already: the floors were clean and glass shard-free, clothes and dishes had been washed and put away. The only thing left were the papers on the dining room table and... Connor stopped.

**[ PROCESSING DATA ]**

**Wayne Oncology Center of Detroit**

**Oncologist Note: Stage IIIB hepatocellular carcinomas resistant to 5FU and cisplatin thus far. Recommend adding doxorubicin to weekly infusion.**

**Description:**

**DIPENHYDRAMINE HCL 50 MG/ML VIAL**

**DOXORUBICIN HCL 2MG/ML INJ 5ML**

**CISPLATIN 3.3 MG/ML**

**5-FLUORUORACIL 330 MG/ML**

 

**IV INFUSE HYDRATION EA ADD HR**

**IV INFUSE TX PX DX SEQ UP TO 1 H**

 

**ADM CHEMO IV INITIAL HOUR**

**ADM CHEMO IV EA ADD HR**

**ADM CHEMO IV PUSH EA ADDL DRUG**

**ADM CHEMO IV SEQ UP TO 1 HR**

 

**Total:**

**$45, 982. 75**

Those last words blinked in red behind his retinal units.

Stage 3B.  _ Stage 3B.  _ **Stage 3B.** _ **Stage 3B.** _

Connor felt his circuits freeze up, his mind foggy, trying to make sense of this, to find a solution. But was there? He couldn't just preconstruct some kind of plan to magically cure him of this disease.

**[ Hank... iS dYiNg... ? ]**

There was no way out of this.

The sheet of paper felt like a brick in his hands.

**[ hAnK iS dYiNg? ]**

Why did his chest feel so tight all of a sudden?

“So you know, huh?”

Hank's gruff voice brought him out of his thoughts and into the present. Into this terrible reality. He was sitting up now, running his hands over his thinning hair.

“Why didn't you tell me?” Connor asked. He made his way over to the couch and sat with him.

Hank stared at his hands, as if the answer hid somewhere among the creases and grooves of his palms. His Adam's apple bobbed in his throat as he swallowed hard, something Connor noticed he did whenever he talked about Cole, whenever there was some kind of emotional turmoil within him.

“I don't know. What's it matter, anyway? It's not like no one saw this shit coming.”

“It matters, Hank.”

At least, to Connor, it did. The idea of impermanence, of the ephemerality of human life wasn't something he often thought about. During his few years at the DPD, he'd seen his share of death, experienced close-calls himself, but never someone he cared about. Because he never really cared in that way. He hadn't been designed to. And yet... The concept of Hank no longer being on this planet, of being unable to walk up to his door, get berated for his social mishaps, share a laugh with his good friend... What would he do?

“Is it so bad?” Hank asked. “You know... To just wanna... fucking rest already? That I just wanna...” His voice cracked. “I just wanna be with my son.”

Was it?

“I don't know.” Connor squeezed his hands into fists over his lap, flexed them out, then back into fists again. “But I think a lot of people would miss you.”

He snorted.

“Yeah? Who?”

The answer seemed logical at the time.

“The Sergeant, for one.”

Hank chuffed and muttered something under his breath which Connor couldn't quite catch. Did Nora not count? Or perhaps he no longer considered her family. But did paperwork determine family?

“...I would miss you, Hank.”

For the first time today, he found those grey-rimmed blue eyes staring back into his, wide as if in some sort of shock, holding his gaze for exactly ten seconds. They wavered, searching his face for the slightest hint of insincerity, the faintest trace of doubt. But he wouldn't find it. A world without Hank... It would be far colder, more boring. Lonelier. It was a world he didn't want to think about. And yet the possibility of Hank vanishing forever stared him right in the face.  **Yellow. Blue. Yellow-Red-Blue-Yellow.** His pump wavered, chest plates tight.

**[ h A n K  i S  d Y i N g (?) ]**

Hank raised his feet up onto the couch and curled back up on the couch, facing the cushions, and closed his eyes.

“Why don't you go to bed? I'll finish up in here and you can rest.”

Hank opened his eyes again.

“...Yeah,” he whispered. “Yeah, I'll do that.” And he stood up with wobbly knees. By the strain he put on Connor's shoulders, he estimated he'd dropped at least forty pounds from his usual weight. Far too much, too quickly. Then again, such were the effects of chemotherapy. Hank fell asleep with ease once in his bed and Sumo followed along faithfully, plopping down at the foot of the bed.

Not long after, Connor heard a rustling at the door. By the sudden growl and bark, Sumo must have too. Fortunately, his owner was in a deep sleep by then. Despite the loud noise, the Saint Bernard stayed at Hank's feet, guarding him. Good boy, he thought.

Outside of the door, there were three paper bags full of groceries. Four boxes of meal replacement shakes in chocolate flavor, opened, each sealed bottle neatly labeled with either B(reakfast), L(unch), or D(inner) and the date it was to be consumed. The third, smaller bag contained a packet with Hank's prescribed nausea and topical medication, along with a not-so-discreet grey plastic bag wrapped around a box. It crinkled as he opened it. A brown tinted glass bottle with a dropper.

**[ PROCESSING DATA ]**

**Glycerin**

**Extracted Hemp Oil**

**Cannabidiol**

**[ A CBD tincture? ]**

Attached to the box was a handwritten sticky note.

_— Dude from the dispensary said two ml (2 drops) only for each shake this time. TWO._

Had that been a problem before? Knowing Hank, it seemed likely.

He glanced back in the direction of Hank's room. It was possible he would need help during the night and morning after consuming all that whiskey. And to leave him here, when he was so vulnerable?

**[ I'm staying the night at Hank's. See you tomorrow. ]**

**[ MESSAGE SENT ]**

The Traci's murder and the source of red ice remained unsolved. And until they pinned that down, Connor's mind would not rest. Not when so many lives were on the line. 

**[ INCOMING MESSAGE ]**

**[** **—** **Thanks ]**

 

* * *

 

_ April 16 th , 2040—06:09 am _

 

Seventeen.

Hands gripping at the iron pull-up bar, Nora lifted her torso up over the handles. And back down.

Eighteen.

Muscle fibers tearing, burning, screaming for mercy, as they did every morning. Pain consuming the tight muscles at her core.

Nineteen.

Push through it. Whatever it was, she could push through it. Because she had to. There was no time to wait for someone else to help her. There was no time for anyone's condescension and pity. There was no time for her to cry and feel sorry for herself or others, as much as she needed to—and  _ God _ _,_ sometimes she just needed to.

The door lock beeped open and Connor wandered in, wearing yesterday's clothes. Before even greeting her, he left his shoes at the entrance as she'd instructed him. Good boy.

Twenty.

She dropped down and landed gently on her foot. Normally, she'd be out on a jog at this hour, but she'd decided to let her residual limb breathe and heal before putting on her athletic prosthesis again. She grabbed her crutch and headed for the yoga mat laid out between the couch and television.

“Good morning, Sergeant Beltrán.”

“We're not at work, so cut that shit out. Hand me that resistance band over there.”

The band felt tight and satiny against the palm of her hand. Even as she performed her daily sets of kneeling kickbacks and side-kicks she felt his stare burning into her skin. Could he tell she hadn't slept? Her eyes felt brittle, dry and tight, the back of her eyelids like sandpaper. Her sinuses burned and pressed against the inside of her prominent cheekbones, thanks to Sumo's dander. There was an ache gnawing at her temples more than her muscles could ever ache.

Six more sets.

“You look terrible,” he said.

But more than anything, it was the memories from last night that hurt the most. They wouldn't leave her alone, whispering in her ear every now and then, whenever she'd stop moving. Whenever she took a breather. There they were. Accusing her.

_Who the fuck do you think you are?_

She'd invaded his space. She'd gone and made decisions for a grown man.

_I don't fucking need you!_

He didn't. Cole had been dead for eight years before she'd waltzed back into his life. Seven since Aunt Marlene had left him. What gave her the right to suddenly decide to “be there” for him?

_You think you're so much better, don't you?_

Did she? Her own marriage certainly hadn't ended any better. Despite her having to work twice as hard as a woman, four times as hard as a Black woman, six times as hard as a disabled Black woman. And yet here she was at a second-choice job for which she was overqualified, in a tiny ass apartment, living hand to mouth just to be able to afford her medicine and treatments. No, she didn't know the answer to that question sometimes. There were days she felt she was better, or rather tried to be. And then there were days like this, where she felt like absolute shit.

The fact of the matter was that, just like most things in her life, she had no control. Hank would either recover from this, or die. Nothing she did would change that, as much as she wanted to—and _God,_ please, did she want to.

“Are you alright?”

She'd been staring off again.

“I'm fine,” she lied. She cleaned up her exercise materials, fixed herself a cup of black coffee and made her way to the small round table by the entrance. Her short fingernails tapped against the white ceramic mug, an absentminded drumming motion to distract her from the twelve plus types of discomfort she was experiencing at the moment. She was sure that Connor knew by now; she hadn't cleaned up the bills from the table and, the curious android that he was, she knew he wouldn't be able to help himself. And yet he wasn't saying anything. Why wasn't he saying anything?

The clinking was suddenly too loud. She put her hands on her lap. She swore she could hear herself blink.

“Hank seemed better this morning. I made him drink some water whenever he woke up.”

Something within her cracked, and she gave a shaky sigh of relief as if she'd been holding it in forever. Elbows perched on the table, she rested her head in her hands.

“Connor, I fucked up.”

When he didn't answer, she continued. He'd be her personal confessor. Whether or not he listened was up to him.

“Hank is—he's alone. And when you're sick, sometimes family doesn't know how to react. They either abandon you or smother you and, well...” She shook her head. “I fucked up... I fucked up.” She glanced up at him.

**Blue. Yellow. Blue.**

“He's all alone. And he shouldn't be.” And then she felt them: burning hot tears, pooling at the rims of her eyelids. Tears of shame. Of desperation. “He needs help. And he'll take it from you, so...” A trail carved its way down her cheek. She never thought she'd be begging anyone again. “Please don't give up on him, Connor. Please help him. He needs you. I just want him to get better. I don't care how. Just don't give up on him, please.”

“I won't. I promise.”

Nora took a shaky breath, rubbing the heels of her hands against her eyes.

“He felt embarrassed about last night when I told him what happened.”

“What? You told him? Why?”

Connor shrugged.

“He asked.”

As if Hank needed more pressure and guilt to deal with.

“Whatever,” she sighed and returned her hands to the warmth of her coffee mug. “Let's just... forget it. We gotta go down to the lab and check out the results Traci. If you're not ready by 6:50 I'm leaving without you.”

The son of a bitch had the audacity to smirk at her.

“Glad to see you're feeling better.”

Smartass.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those of you who've commented and/or left me kudos... You give me life. I love you guys. Thank you so much.


End file.
